


Homo Paniscus

by phipiohsum475



Series: Species!Lock [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bonobos, Case Fic, Crack, M/M, not sure how the crack became plotty, sociosexual behaviors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the fandom has wolves and cats and dogs and egg fics, and I just thought there are so many other types of reproduction from the animal world...</p><p>So, bonobos.</p><p>“We called his next of kin, a mate apparently, no family. When we called, we were informed that this man, Robert Lindinfield, died and was buried six weeks ago.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Hate Us 'Cause We're Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly different from my usual set-up. Bonobos, along with chimpanzees are the closest species to humans. So what if they evolved together?
> 
> John is Paniscus (the species name for Bonobos), while Sherlock is Sapien (for Homo Sapien, ie. human). 
> 
> Hopefully I explain this completely clearly in the fic.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

The coffee shop was brightly lit for four in the morning. _Too brightly_ , John thought, _like a grocers_. He sipped his coffee; he and Sherlock had been up for 18 hours and just left Lestrade with a gagged and bound Paniscus attempting to be his Sapien doppelganger. He’d sleep, but he’d never wake up in time for the clinic in just under – John checked his watched – two hours and forty six minutes. Add an eight hour shift on top of that and he skipped the tea and went straight to the coffee. He went to take another sip and found the mug was surprisingly empty. Had he really finished the whole cup already?

“I’m going up for another cup. Need anything?” he asked Sherlock, not expecting an answer. Sherlock had been gazing out the window with a dull gleam in his eyes, a clear sign, to John at least, that he was filing and sorting the latest case in his Mind Palace. John turned and walked up to the empty counter. The long haired barista was sitting behind the counter on a upturned bucket, clicking away on his phone. A student, no doubt. John was forcibly reminded of Mycroft’s distant assistant, though the student wasn’t nearly as shapely. John cleared his throat and the kid’s head snapped up with a quick curse on his lips, followed by an equally quick apology.

John waved off the apology. He couldn’t expect hand and foot service at a coffee shop open this late. Early? He got his refill and headed back to the table.

“Watson? John Watson?” he heard an incredulous voice call out his name. He knew that voice, couldn’t help but have it memorized after the time they’d served together.

“Murray!”

Bill Murray took three large strides from the front door and encompassed John in a tight hug. He buried his nose in John’s neck and let his right hand drift down to give John’s prick a few friendly strokes. John returned the gesture, both the snuggle and the grope, before breaking apart.

“How are you? Can I buy- oh, I see you’ve got one. Do you have a few minutes to catch up?” Bill spoke in a bumbling rapid fire.

John looked back to Sherlock, who was still absorbed in his thoughts. “Yeah, I’ve got a few until my flatmate comes back down to Earth.” He followed Bill to a corner booth.

“That’s Sherlock, yeah?” Bill had been reading his blog.

“Yeah. We’re just off a case and he’s ‘filing’.”

“The mind yurt thing, right?”

John laughed. “Yurt? Really? That’s what you went with? It’s a palace, you clod.”

“I’ve heard it both ways. So tell me about it. Your case.”

John delved into the case and spoke without stopping for near twenty minutes. He spun a good tale; Bill gasped and laughed and asked the right questions at all the right places. John forgot how easy this could be, the socialization with another Paniscus.

“So, back in London?” John prompted Bill at the end of his gripping tale, in which he may have come out more heroic than intended. It was time for him to stop talking for a bit.

“Yeah. I’ve a consulting gig that starts next week for a few months and I needed to find a bedsit this weekend. Hannah, Tim, Maggie and the kids are staying back home and I’ll just go back for the weekends. Can’t pass up the money, you know?”

“Maggie? She’s new.” Bill had been with Hannah and Tim during their last deployment, but he wasn’t familiar with Maggie.

“Maggie moved to the neighborhood a year or so ago. Didn’t take but six weeks before she moved in with us. She’s 62, and you know those how it is with age, knowing what you want right away. No dithering about like we did in our teens. She’s great with the kids. And _experienced_.” Bill paused and John watched him drift briefly into a warm memory.

“That good, huh?” John interrupted. Bill shook his head as though clearing the thoughts from his head and looked back at John.

“ _Fantastic_. She’s – wow. I don’t know how you stand London, with all these Sapiens. They’re so… so… “ Bill was searching for the right word. John knew just the one.

“Frigid.”

Bill laughed. “That’s it exactly. Bloody _frigid_.”

John gestured to the center of the coffee shop where they had greeted each other, “You know that’s the first proper greeting I’ve had in two months?”

He sipped at the lukewarm coffee and spoke seriously. “But here with Sherlock. It’s nice to have a purpose again. It’s not Afghanistan, but solving crimes with the Met isn’t too far behind.”

He threw back the last of the coffee with a large gulp. “And the DI’s Paniscus. The rest of the division is Sapien, so we typically adhere to Sapien behaviors on the job, but at least someone else gets it, you know?”

“And dating!” John continued, rambling at this point, “Dating is a nightmare. The women I’ve dated _try_ to be open minded. They don’t care so much about the infertile kids, if they even want kids. But they can’t handle Sherlock at all. They all think I’m lying about being in an open relationship. Of course, I’ve told them I’m happy to be monogamous. Hell, I’ll be anything to get a leg over. But they still assume we’re shagging, so I must be lying about the open relationship bit.”

“Don’t they believe him? With him being Sapien too?”

“They might, if he’d bother to correct their assumptions.”

“Really? He says nothing?” Bill looked surprised. John knew exactly what he was going to say next. “You might not being shagging now, but maybe he wants to be. Have you thought about it?”

John covered his eyes in exasperation. “Thought about it? God, yes. If that man would let me, I’d fuck him bloody senseless.”

He looked back to Bill, who wasn’t looking at him anymore, but to the left and up. John followed his eye line to see Sherlock, with a purposefully blank expression.

“John. It’s time go.” Sherlock’s lack of comment was a comment in itself. He’d definitely heard.

John sighed deeply and got up from the table. He gave Bill a proper goodbye and together, he and Sherlock caught an awkward cab back to Baker St.


	2. When It's Serious

John tossed back another cup of coffee at the flat after having showered and dressed for his shift. Sherlock had marched into his room immediately upon coming home and John hadn’t seen him since. He left a half pot of coffee just in case, and headed out.

The clinic was busy and John saw the same monotony of Paniscus patients he saw day in and day out. Sinus infections and asthma follow ups and diabetics struggling to adhere to strict diets and medications. He’d treated both Panisci and Sapiens in Afghanistan, but such was the nature of war. He rarely had Sapien patients in the clinic, though they differed very little from Panisci in their problem list.

The day droned on drearily. Lunch was jam and toast; the kitchen back at Baker St was currently inhabited with 87 varieties of moss and he hadn’t been to the shops for anything more substantial than jam in days. The only highlight of the day was the second to last patient. It was rare to see a Panisci with any form of sexually transmitted disease. Evolution seemed to acknowledge that any species with an excess of sociosexual behaviors ought to also be fairly immune to the standard viruses that came with such contact.

The day, though dull, distracted John from the awkwardness of the morning, where he’d inadvertently admitted far too much to Sherlock. Not only was Sherlock Sapien, but he was, by his own admission “married to his work.” John had never meant to burden him with the knowledge of his attraction. No use in endangering a great thing on the near impossibility of an amazing thing

On the walk back to Baker St, John deliberated on his accidental confession. Would Sherlock care? He might just dismiss it as a consequence of transport. Or would it get awkward, knowing that John wanted to grab those dark transport curls and thrust his cock into that gorgeous transport mouth? _Well, it’ll be definitely be awkward if you phrase it like that_ , John chided himself. He attempted to put it out of his mind; Sherlock’s behaviors often defied prediction and he expected this would be no different.

-o-

Sherlock nearly knocked him on his arse as he burst from the front door. “Case, John!” he hollered as he folded his long limbs in the black cab without a second look at John. John clamored in behind him. Sherlock rattled off directions to the cabbie and then sat silently, gazing out the window. Not atypical behavior from Sherlock, but John couldn’t be entirely sure today, so he, too, sat in silence. To dismiss the tension, he began mentally writing the blog for yesterday’s adventure. A title to start – _Dual Deception? The Cake Baking Fake? The Imposter Paniscus?_ That last one might garner attention. They didn’t often have cases in Special Crimes with Panisci, as most cases were violent in some manner and Panisci were largely more prone to crimes of deception, where socialization was key. The only reason they ended up with the fraud case was because the baker’s ex-wife had come directly to them, complaining about the missing alimony checks and icing in the wrong shade of blue.

The cab slowed to a stop and Sherlock bundled out. John followed quietly behind him and together, but still not speaking, they entered the building guarded by a MET officer. John still didn’t know if it was Sherlock’s mood or an avoidance tactic, but he gave up caring. _Sod it_ , he thought. _It doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s time to stop worrying._ He buried the anxiety deep in his mind and focused on the case, on Sherlock, on anything but his earlier mistake.

They approached Lestrade, who attempted to give Sherlock a perfunctory Sapien handshake, only for Sherlock to dodge his extended arm completely and stride over to the corpse in the hallway with purpose. Lestrade turned to John, who shrugged his shoulders in an exasperated apology for Sherlock’s behavior. John stuck his hand out for the cast-off handshake, but Lestrade, in an unusual show of instinct, pulled him in and nuzzled his neck. At that range, John sensed the stress cracking away at the corners of Lestrade’s professional disposition. He sympathized immediately and held Lestrade tight with one arm as he nosed into his neck, and used his other to run gentle, reassuring strokes down Lestrade’s front. Lestrade softened as the physical contact diminished the stress. After a few more seconds, he broke away and led John over to the body Sherlock was examining.

Lestrade walked them through the rough details of the case. A chemist, found dead in his lab, surrounded by 53 vials of chemical mixtures they hadn’t yet began to indentify. Possibly dead from a poisonous gas reaction in one of the vials, so only four people had been into the lab, as they only had four gas masks at the station. The woman who discovered the body was en route to the in case she’d been poisoned by the air in the lab. The body had been dragged out into the hall for forensic inspection, once it had been photographed repeatedly as it had lain in the lab.

Lestrade didn’t get any further in his explanation before Sherlock began to berate the entire team. He was infuriated that the body had been moved, that they’d expected poison gas instead of the obvious signs that some drug had been injected between the victim’s toes.

“He’s wearing shoes, Sherlock-“ Lestrade started.

“Look at the bows. Both off to the right side. If the victim had tied them himself, they’d most likely be centered at the top if he’d bent over, or the bows would both face inward if he’d sat and crossed his legs to do so. Suggests that someone else tied his shoes from-“ Sherlock maneuvered his body to the right of the patient and held his hands out in example, “this direction. It’s unlikely enough that I removed his shoes and found a puncture wound between the third and fourth toes on the left foot.”

“When did you-“

“When you and John were-“ Sherlock paused, looking for the right word, “-greeting.”

John’s eyes widened in surprised. Sherlock almost always described his instinctive behaviors with derisions and insults. He’d never seen the man censor himself. He’d have to acknowledge that later with a little positive reinforcement. Maybe he’d get a pancreas from Molly. Sherlock would love that. He’d pretend to be indifferent, sitting stoically at the kitchen table, but his eyes would shine and the corner of his mouth would twitch. John could see it so vividly he could almost touch it. Take his thumb and gently pass over the little twitch in Sherlock’s mouth, maybe stroke his thumb over his cheekbone and down Sherlock’s jawline until he could grasp the man’s chin between his forefinger and thumb, tilt his head back so that those sweet, angled lips would be right there for John to bend down and-

_Fuck_.

John forced himself out of his own head and tried to assess the corpse. He could tell that the man had been in pain before he’d died, and that there were signs he’d been running a high fever and had vomited at least twice before passing out. Likely dead for 24 to 36 hours. Given the injection site, likely a massive drug reaction.

Though, this apparently was not why they had called Sherlock.

“Say that again.” John tuned in to Sherlock’s sharp order to Lestrade.

“We called his next of kin, a mate apparently, no family. When we called, we were informed that this man, Robert Lindinfield, died and was buried six weeks ago.”


	3. You Don't Have to Be Sad Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is getting longer than I had anticipated... Hopefully it's still good :)

After being thrown out of the hospital for harassing the woman who’d found the body, John and Sherlock returned to Baker St for basic research. Sherlock hung up his jacket, swiped John’s laptop and began to scour the internet for leads. John, as he hadn’t been home in 16 hours, comforted himself with the ritual of making tea. While the kettle was on the stove, he tossed the dredges of the coffee he’d made that morning and washed the few dishes Sherlock had dirtied during the day.

He finished up the tea and set a cup near Sherlock without a word. He settled himself in his chair and took a sip of his tea with closed eyes.

“You need to go interview the next of kin. I can’t rely on the interviewing skills of Lestrade’s incompetent team.”

John took the hidden compliment with a soft smile, but replied, “It’s near midnight, Sherlock. I’m not interviewing anyone tonight.”

“But I need to know! He was a bench scientist and a Paniscus. Only one percent of bench scientists aren’t Sapiens. Too little _social interaction_.” Sherlock spit the last two words out with the disdain with which John was accustomed.

“You think he was posing as a Sapien?” John asked. Despite the major advances in the last century or so, the stereotype existed that Panisci were only talented in social situations. Panisci had to adopt strictly Sapien behaviors to thrive in any non-social science, some to the point of denying instincts in their private lives as well.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, with the telltale rise of his eyebrows letting John know he’d illuminated Sherlock’s thoughts once again. Sherlock abandoned the computer and perched himself on the couch, giving in to the demands of his processing power. His eyes glassed over and John knew he’d be gone for longer than he was willing to sit and wait.

-0-

John awoke mostly refreshed and to the piercing smell of sulphur and the sickly sweet scent of artificial bananas. He groaned inwardly and rolled out of bed, stretching his stiff shoulder. He checked his phone; Sherlock would have texted him if he’d gone out, so he could confirm that the gag inducing odors were being actively managed downstairs. Gathering his clothes to carry to the bathroom, he made his way down. He passed by and briefly looked in at Sherlock, puttering away over his chemistry set at the kitchen in cotton pyjamas and a blue dressing gown.

“I thought the chemist wasn’t killed by poison gas,” John teased, his clothes still draped in his arms, hair askew, with a sleepy smirk on his face.

“Not gas, John, no.” Sherlock ignored his gentle taunt and responded factually. “However, I am attempting to determine the chemical which killed our victim. I need to know if it was one of the 53 concoctions in his lab.”

“Keep going,” John prompted.

“To be killed in his lab, by injection, suggests that he was injected with a solution of his own making, or one of the killers. The easiest route is to determine if any of the solutions present in the lab killed him. If so, the motive is related to his work, and the killer was knowledgeable but opportunistic. Motives are mostly likely jealousy or revenge. If the concoction is not of his own design, then the killer brought the solution into the lab and we may be able to determine the lab which created the solution to narrow down the killer.” Sherlock took a breath. “I had to do something while you slept.”

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Dull, John. You know better.”

“I suppose I do. Need the toilet at all?”

“By all means,” Sherlock waved his hand in the general direction of the bathroom.

-o-

A shower, fresh jumper, cup of tea and John was ready to acquiesce to Sherlock’s whims for the next several hours. He’d been directed to the next of kin, now that the hour was more appropriate, and he’d left Sherlock to his experiments and taken a cab to the address Lestrade had texted him. He arrived in front of a red brick mansion divided into flats in Culford Gardens.

The woman who answered the door showed far too much of her deep black coffee skin, the skimpy pale dressing gown serving to darken her further. Her eyes were wide, mocha colored, and dulled by a lack of caffeine at this time of the morning, though her natural curly hair remained bouncy and full, unaffected by the restless night’s sleep she’d obviously struggled through. John confirmed her identity as Gwen Harper and he quickly flashed Lestrade’s badge while introducing himself with his Three Continent smile. She beckoned him in and he followed her to the ivory couch in the sitting room.

Sufficiently distracted between her exhaustion and John’s falsehood, Gwen talked to John like an old friend, gossiping over a cuppa. The victim, Robbie, had been working on some sort of breakthrough in the lab. She’d originally met him through a fundraiser, where he’d been plying as many posh old woman he could into providing funds for his most recent endeavor, some leukemia drug that might also treat rheumatoid arthritis.

As it turned out, despite the luxuriousness of the home and the manner in which she had met the victim, Gwen wasn’t the owner of the flat. She served as a live-in for an elderly women who resided nine months of the year on a old Southern plantation in the States. She’d been no more than a representative of the old woman when she’d attended the fundraiser, but she’d caught Robbie’s attention and the two had begun to date. The relationship had continued for around six months, and all the while she’d been afraid to tell Robbie that she wasn’t the one with the funds. She’d convinced the old woman, however, to contribute to his research in her name, so he was never the wiser.

“Were there any others in your relationship?” John inquired.

“Oh no.” Gwen replied. “He was a traditional Sapien. He even tried to prevent Panisci from working in the labs. We fought over it sometimes. I might be Sapien myself, but I’m not so blind that I can’t see that Sapiens aren’t the only ones interested in science. You understand, I hope.”

“I do.” John confirmed, and immediately changed topics, wanting to side step the political discussion that was threatening to take hold. “Tell me about his death,” he prompted.

Gwen took a deep breath and folded her dark hands together. “We’d broken up about three weeks prior. Suddenly I get a phone call, from a Dr Smith, saying that Robbie’d been caught in a house fire and hadn’t survived his injuries. I was still listed as his next of kin, since he didn’t have any family. I contacted a few of his friends, used my employer’s money for a funeral, and we buried him in Gunnersbury. Only six of us showed up to the funeral. Robbie didn’t have any family and most of his friends were work related.”

“Did you have to identify his body?” John questioned.

“Not at all, thank heavens. They said they’d matched his DNA, so there was no need for me to come down.”

“Who matched his DNA?”

“Oh, the doctor. Or whoever does that sort of thing at the hospital.”

John thanked her for her time and took another cab back to Baker St. Her information was certainly helpful, and he didn’t even need Sherlockian skills to know that she’d assisted more than she realized.

-o-

Sherlock was still hunched over the kitchen table, though by the looks of it, he’d determined the chemical composition of three dozen samples or so.

“Anything deadly?”

“No. I’m beginning to suspect our killer meant to confuse us, waste our time. Half these chemicals are decoys.” Sherlock gestured to a transparent, but vibrant green solution. “See that? A popular energy drink.” Then he waved to a cloudy red substance, “Milky water and food dye.”

Then he smiled, “Good thing he’s an idiot. It just tells us the answer is most definitely here. The exception proves the rule and whatnot.”

“You mean the fact that decoys exists proves the weapon is among them?”

“Exactly.”

“Right. Well, he definitely faked his death.”

“Obvious.”

“Shut up and let me finish. They’d dated for six months, three weeks after they broke up she gets a phone call from a _doctor_ saying he’d died in a house fire. And that she didn’t need to come identify the body; the doctor had confirmed it with a DNA test. As it turns out, she was pretty lucky he died; she’d been lying to him. The flat, the money she’d been donating to his grant, it was all her employers.”

“Employer?”

“Elderly woman, has her house sitting nine months of the year.”

“So she’s not our killer, then.”

“Nope.”

John made his way out of the kitchen and settled comfortably in his chair, having served his purpose. He picked up his most recent book, a look at life in a New York City hospital. The American health care system made for fascinating reading. He opened to the dog eared page, and began to read, figuring Sherlock would need him to do something sooner or later, but he could get through a few pages first.

Sherlock spoke suddenly, softly, but confidently, as though John had missed something evident. “I would, you know.”

“What?” Half not positive he’d heard and half for further explanation, John turned his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“Let you.”

_Let me?_ John thought. _Let me do what?_ And then his thoughts turned to his conversation with Bill.

_If that man would let me, I’d fuck him bloody senseless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book John reads is real and very good, if you go for non-fiction. It's called:  
> Hospital: Man, Woman, Birth, Death, Infinity, Plus Red Tape, Bad Behavior, Money, God, and Diversity on Steroids  
> Author is Julie Salamon.


	4. Chapter 4. To Be A Happy Individual

John was half way to the kitchen before his brain caught up to his feet. He was already half hard and his body buzzed with anticipation. Sherlock Holmes, this gorgeous, brilliant, phenomenal bastard was going to let John touch him, let John kiss him, let John…

_Let John._

_Not Want._

_Let._

Oh God. John stuttered to a halt less than a meter away from Sherlock. Panic rose in his eyes as he finally focused on the man before him. It wasn’t lust, passion, fire in those eyes, but apprehension, anxiety. John stepped back, horrified. _What had he almost done? Why would Sherlock offer his body like this when his mind was clearly unwilling? Did he think John just wanted to use him? Use his body, damn his mind? What did he think of John? How could he think-_

“Stop, John.”

“I’m so sorry. How could you think that? How could you-“

“Stop. You’ve got it wrong,” Sherlock smirked. “As usual.”

Anger flared deep in John’s chest. “No. You don’t get to joke about this. This is serious.” He flinched at the sound of his own voice. He softened his expression and did his best to convey the severity of his next question, “Why?” He didn’t need to elaborate, he knew Sherlock would understand the rest.

Sherlock paused in thought, orchestrating his words. “I am deeply attracted to you, with all the carnal and romantic aspirations that implies.”

The surprise on John’s face was almost comical. Whatever he’d been expecting Sherlock to say, that wasn’t it.

Sherlock continued on, “My apprehension, no doubt the cause of your completely unfounded moral crisis, does not derive from my lack of interest in you or in sex. I am, however, realistic. I have an extremely low libido, even for a member of my species. Your libido is quite high, though my infrequent dealings with the sexual behaviors of Panisci makes it difficult to discern where on the scale you fall within your own species.”

A dawning realization fell over John. “You’re worried you won’t be enough for me. That I’ll need another partner or sleep around on you.”

“Ah, you’ve managed to capture the matter of importance, but get the rest wrong. I’m not sure that’s an improvement over your typical deductions.”

“Sherlock.” John growled, in warning.

“I am more than happy to engage in a polyamorous relationship. In fact, I’m confident we have a willing partner. My trepidation lay in determining in whether it were better for you and I to consummate the relationship and then approach Lestrade, or approach Lestrade and then consummate the relationship.”

“Hold on.” John closed his eyes and sorted through the wealth of information he’d been given. Sherlock was interested in him. Sherlock would be happy to have another person in their relationship. Sherlock thought Lestrade should be the other person in their relationship. _Christ._ He rubbed his face, pinched his eyes, breathed deeply, and opened his eyes once again. “Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“No, no. I need more than that. I’m an idiot, remember? Take me though it.”

“It’s hardly difficult. Lestrade and I have been intimate on occasion in the past, and his ability to not only tolerate me on crime scenes, but to invite me suggests he can handle my eccentricities. The manner in which he greeted you yesterday belies his interest in you.”

“Putting aside you and Lestrade, that’s typical of the way we greet. You know that.”

“In the seven years I’ve been consulting with Lestrade, I’ve not once witnessed him engage in instinctual behavior in front of his colleagues. I suspect he’ll invite you to participate in more intimate behavior within the week.”

“And you’d be fine with this. Sharing me with Greg?”

“I find it to be a wholly satisfactory arrangement.” Sherlock answered honestly.

John smiled a genuine smile, the first of the conversation. “I’d like that, too.” He needed to take a pause in this conversation. “Tea?”

“Please.”

-o-

The tea was consumed as Sherlock tinkered through three more vials. The smell had dissipated considerably, or else John had become accustomed to whatever ill odor had permeated his nostrils. John watched Sherlock as he concentrated over his solutions. The way his curls bobbed as he moved, the subtle twitch of his lips that betrayed satisfaction, those lovely, lovely cheekbones that were temporarily marred by the safety goggles.

His head was still swimming from their conversation, though the tea buoyed him a bit. He’d never known Sherlock to be genuinely interested in anyone romantically and he preened at the thought of Sherlock’s intensity focused on him. Well, him and Greg. But wouldn’t that be a lovely addition? He’d fancied Greg, but the complete lack of reciprocal behavior, _well, until yesterday_ , made John think he hadn’t a chance. There’s no doubt he’d be happy with Sherlock alone, but for him to understand John’s instincts, his baser needs, and not only tolerate them, but find them favorable?

He kept watching Sherlock, looking for a break in his concentration to begin their discussion once again. He saw his moment, after Sherlock set the fourth vial aside and muttered “bovine urine” in disgust.

“If we’re going to do this, I want to talk about a few things.”

“Really, John? Haven’t we covered enough?”

“No.” John merely smiled at Sherlock’s annoyance.

Sherlock pulled the goggles over his head and looked at the empty tea cup, as though unaware he’d drank it. “Well?” he prompted.

“Three things. One – when you propositioned me, is it because you are currently in the mood for a shag, or because you didn’t want to miss the opportunity?”

Sherlock halted before speaking, looking uncomfortable. “I- “

“That’s fine, Sherlock. We don’t have to do this now. We can just.. be together. No pressure.” John looked Sherlock in the eye, allowing him to observe how very fine it was. “Two – because you and Lestrade have already been together, it is considered more appropriate for the remaining pairs to consummate before doing so as a group.”

“Appropriate?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Call it a social convention.” John saw Sherlock open his mouth and cut him off, “And yes, I know you find social expectations tedious, but I don’t. Before the three of us are together, I’ll want to be with you and with Greg separately. Provided, of course, that he’s interested.”

“I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong.”

“Harriet.”

“Nearly never.”

“Regardless.” John stood up and walked over to Sherlock, standing several centimeters taller than Sherlock, who sat at the kitchen table. He placed two fingers under Sherlock’s chin and softly tilted his face upwards, to look him in the eye. He lowered his voice, now speaking in a caressing whisper, “And three – how do you feel about affection? May I kiss you? Touch you? Would you rather I abstain unless you initiate?”

“Yes. I mean, no.” Sherlock faltered, to John’s delight.

“Tell me what you want.” John palmed Sherlock’s cheek and brushed a thumb over his pink lips.

“Kiss me.”

John bent down slowly, guiding Sherlock with the hand on his cheek and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss was chaste, but loving. John pulled back slightly and checked Sherlock’s expression and saw the passion he’d been looking for earlier. Keeping his right hand on Sherlock’s face, he buried his left amongst Sherlock’s curls and bent down to kiss him again, this time more deeply.

The kiss was heated. John could taste Sherlock and the tea he’d finished off and the traces of chemicals from his current case work. John nipped softly at Sherlock’s bottom lip and traced the lip with his tongue. Sherlock, like John, didn’t seem to prefer an abundance of tongue, preferring to nip and lick and capture each other’ lips with slow, deliberate movements. John’s whole body tingled in delight.

John eventually, regretfully, broke away, with a daze evident on his face. “I’ve wanted to do that for months.”

Sherlock looked equally blissful, but still managed a snarky remark, “I’d prefer you didn’t wait months to do it again.”


	5. Make You Smile

Sherlock’s phone chirped and startled him out of sleep. He sprung up off the kitchen table and nearly fell out of his chair. He flailed and scrambled for his phone, and answered it with a breathy “Holmes.” Laughter echoed out of the living room, and Sherlock knew John had woken and was reading his morning paper. The tinny sound of Lestade could be heard by both through the phone.

“The autopsy? Let me get John.” Sherlock responded, and put the phone on speaker.

John sauntered into the kitchen, his dressing gown exposing the musculature of his chest. _Curious_ , Sherlock thought, _he’d never seen John so…_ bare.

“Go on” John spoke into the phone.

“Lindinfield died of massive organ failure. Hooper said something like a ‘cyclone storm’ but I know that’s not the right word.”

“A cytokine storm.” John corrected, and his brain began to make connections. _Cytokine storms. Massive Organ Failure. Leukemia. Rheumatoid arthritis._

“Does that mean anything to either of you?” Lestrade prompted.

“Yeah. Fuck. TGN1412.” He turned to Sherlock. “Can you test for it?”

Sherlock looked embarrassed, “It’s not on the market. I’m not sure what it is.”

“Damn straight it’s not on the market. TGN1412 was a drug made for to treat leukemia and rheumatoid arthritis. First time they tested in Sapiens, it caused cytokine storms, massive organ failure and nearly killed all six participants.”

“And Lindinfield was related to this somehow?” Lestrade questioned.

“Not that I know of, but I do know that the next of kin, his ex, said he was fundraising for a drug to treat leukemia and rheumatoid arthritis.”

Sherlock spoke up, “Trying to fix the drug, perhaps?” He looked at the remaining vials in his makeshift lab. “I’ll bet I’ve got it here.”

“Is it dangerous, John?”

“Well, it’s got to be injected, so not an inhalant.”

“So I imagine my suspect pool now includes the families of the those affected?”

“Excellent deduction, Lestrade.” John perked up at the sincerity of Sherlock’s voice.

“Uh, thanks. Anything else for me?”

“Not now. I’ve got to finish up these samples.”

“I’m good, too. Let me know if you’ve got any questions regarding the medical side of things.”

-o-

On the forty seventh vial, Sherlock, in his own personal exuberance, shouted ‘Eureka!’

“Eureka? Archimedes? Really?” John teased Sherlock, reaching up to soften the dig with a soft kiss on his temple.

“If you are allowed popular culture references, I should be excused my _intelligent_ cultural references.”

John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s dark locks and tugged gently. “Listen, you-“ John stopped suddenly at the moan that shuddered through Sherlock. “Oh. Sensitive, are we?” John used the hand in Sherlock’s hair to lead him to John’s lips, without being overly rough. Sherlock bent down compliantly and groaned again.

Suddenly, Sherlock slid his arms around John pulling him tight, and pressed fervently into the kiss. The gentleness from before was gone, and Sherlock gripped the back of John’s head as slipped his tongue deeper to mingle with John’s. Their teeth clacked once or twice, Sherlock’s eagerness getting in the way and John allowed him to lead them to the bedroom slowly, progress impeded by the their enthusiastic embrace.

They bounced roughly into the door frame, but didn’t slow until they hit the bed. Sherlock pushed John away from him, and watched him fall backwards onto his bed. John stared up with surprise, and perhaps, a bit of awe.

Breathless, he asked, “Where the hell did that come from?”

Sherlock crawled on top of him. “I don’t feel desire nearly as often as others, but when I do, I’ve come to realize I feel it quite strongly.” Without waiting from a response from John, he dipped down and nipped at John’s lips, then reached down, with little preamble, and ripped John’s shirts open.

John cried out as buttons went flying, but Sherlock continued to strip him with an intensity that sizzled through John’s body. Naked, he felt Sherlock’s hands everywhere all at once, lips and tongue darted back and forth from his neck to his arms to his chest and back again. It was all so fast and overwhelming, and John was unbelievably hard. He realized, belatedly, that Sherlock was still fully dressed. Determined, he drew from the wrestling matches during slow patrols and pounced, flipping Sherlock suddenly and pinning him against the bed.

“Oh, _fuck_ , John,” Sherlock whimpered, and pulled him down into a frenzied kiss until John pushed his way out of Sherlock’s grasp.

John panted deeply, trying to catch his breath, and, to his surprise, focusing on delaying his arousal. Sherlock looked up, confused. John smiled.

“You are wearing too many clothes, you brute.” John bent down to undress Sherlock, and found himself competing with Sherlock’s own hands. He was attempting to disrobe just as quickly as he had done to John. Once completed, John stepped back to gaze upon his flat mate cum lover. And then broke down into giggles at the blatant double entendre. Sherlock looked quizzical.

“I was just thinking, you are my flat mate, cum lover” John’s couldn’t stop the laughter.

“Yes, I am both your flat mate and your lover.” Sherlock was still confused.

John pried, “And the non-Latin use of the word cum?”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

“Never mind. It was an Americanism. But I promise you, it was a little dirty.” John bent down to Sherlock, grabbing his wrists as they went. He used his leverage to pin Sherlock’s arms down and steal a deep, slow, sensuous kiss. Seeing Sherlock’s keenness, he wanted just a moment to revel in the gorgeous Sapien gasping underneath him. He knew, once he let go, he’d be besieged by the vigor of Sherlock’s attentions.

Sherlock flipped him again as soon as John acquiesced, but he’d expected that. He explored John’s body again as though he were endangered. John felt drugged, both hypersensitive to Sherlock’s touch, but slow to follow his paths across John’s most erogenous zones. Without warning, he wolfed down as much as John’s throbbing erection as he could, and John bucked, stunned, deep into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gagged and pulled off, while John offered his apologies and said, “Warn me next time, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Sherlock lowered his mouth back to John’s cock, but slower this time, taking time to lick around the head and press kisses down the shaft. He lathered his attentions, bobbing up and down while John struggled to keep his hips from gagging Sherlock again. Sherlock bobbed faster and John felt the warmth slither through his chest, down his abdomen and sneak into his groin.

“Oh, God, Sherlock,” he warned.

Sherlock popped off his cock and smiled a devious smile when John groaned in disappointment. He crawled back up over John and slathered his hand with his own saliva. He smirked at John, lined himself up next to John’s overeager prick, and took them both in his long, deliberate fingers. Sherlock attacked John’s neck as he pumped their erections with a fierce determination. John couldn’t hardly breathe for the attentions he was receiving and he wondered if every time with Sherlock would be as possessed as this.

John’s orgasm teetered on the edge. Sherlock placed his forehead against John’s and growled, “Fuck, John” and John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s ejaculate splatter in thick ropes across his chest. His own orgasm hit like falling off a cliff and his come joined Sherlock’s on his chest. Sherlock panted deeply above him. John mimicked this behavior, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Then John smiled, looked Sherlock in the eyes, and gasped, “Hi.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TGN1412 is a real thing, and really did have huge consequences in its Phase I trials. It's both fascinating and awful to read about.


	6. Artistic Worldly Views

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of an interlude to move the story along - not as exciting as the last chapter. Sorry! The next will be more exciting, I promise.

“Here he is, man of the hour!”

It was the third compliment lobbed at John in their short walk up to Lestrade’s office. Sherlock’s jaw clenched tighter with each remark. He walked into the office without notice, exuding dominance. John followed nonchalantly behind.

“John, we’ve got six leads and motive. I’ve got to hand it to you, mate, you’ve done a fair bit of good.”

“This is ridiculous. He identifies the murder weapon and you make him into a hero?”

“The murder weapon is an experimental drug used in one human trial of only six people. It’s not exactly your garden-variety gun, now is it? Now hush, jealously isn’t a good look for you.” Lestrade grabbed several files off his desk. “If you’re done sulking, I’ve got some people here who felt awfully strongly about the drug’s effects on their loved ones. Care to have a go?”

Sherlock snatched the files and flopped down on the nearest chair. He flipped rapidly through the evidence and burst with a staccato “No! No! No! No! No! No!” He scowled and started rooting through the photos on Lestrade’s desk.

John turned to Lestrade, “You wouldn’t think solving the murder of a dead man would be so hard.”

Sherlock twirled to John, eyes bright with revelation, “This is all wrong, Lestrade. We’re trying to solve the murder, but we’ve lost sight that the victim was _already dead_. None of these people should have known or believed Lindinfield was alive. We have to find out who knew Lindinfield wasn’t dead.”

“So, let’s check his accounts, if he withdrew money, where’d it go, check life insurance, did it pay and to whom.” Lestrade leaned out the office door, “Donovan!”

“It seems Lestrade has this well in hand,” Sherlock deferred, to John’s suspicion. “Lunch, John?”

-o-

Once they’d cleared the building, John turned to Sherlock, “So, what are we looking for?”

“Chinese?”

“I’m not blind, Sherlock. You’ve gotten a clue from Lestrade’s office but didn’t bother clueing him in. Where are headed?”

“You are the King of Idiots, John.”

“Oi! Just because I’m not as bloody brilliant as the famous, arrogant, sodding Sherlock Holmes!” John fumed.

“What? Oh! No, don’t be dull. The world is full of idiots. You could lead them well, you’re cleverer than all of them, by spades.”

John snorted in exasperation, “Ta. Need a little more work on your compliments, though.”

“Why bother? I so rarely need to use them.”

John sighed, relenting. “The clue, Sherlock.”

“Ah, yes!” Sherlock pulled out a photo; the dead man’s body, with his left hand grasping at his abdomen, no doubt clawing at the pain of failing organs. “See the ring?”

John looked again. Lindinfield wore a gaudy ring on his left middle finger; not a wedding band, but ornamental jewelry. The stone, an agate eye, was set in a gold band and reminded John forcibly of a cow’s eye he’d dissected in uni. “Agate eye, that’s telling.”

“Agate? Means ‘protection’ or ‘courage’ if you buy into New Age crystology. I’ve got a ring like that myself, a gift from a grateful client.”

“A Paniscus client?” John smiled knowingly.

“Yes.” Sherlock hesitated, “How did you know?”

“I never thought I’d say this, but you need to do your research.”

“Really, John? Oh do tell what magical wonders of agate I’ve been missing out on.” Sherlock replied caustically.

“Agate eye is also known Evil Eye. Historically, Panisci have gifted untrustworthy or especially wicked Sapiens with the Evil Eye as a warning to other Panisci.”

“But I solved the case for him!”

“And I bet you were a right arse about it too. Either way, Lindinfield was Paniscus, he knew what it meant. So he must have been warning other Panisci from dealing with him. Not trying to deceive his own, and all that.”

“So we’ve got a con man, posing as a Sapien to deceive Sapiens, while warding off Panisci, likely using a dangerous experimental drug as the heart of his con. He faked his death, only to be murdered with the same drug.”

“Nicely put, yeah. But if you didn’t know what the ring meant, why’d you take the photo?”

“This ring. It’s unique, an antique with a custom setting, he likely inherited it. I’ve got a jeweler who can tell us who set it. Either we find he stole it, or we find his family. ”

-o-

The jeweler was a thick man with a soft voice and hands like dinner plates. He pulled out a large film noir magnifying glass and examined the photo for far longer than John expected. “This is a lovely piece, though I’m assuming you know the meaning behind the stone?”

“Of course, Rogness, a warning against deviant Sapiens such as myself.” John coughed, and Sherlock glared.

“The setting is lovely, popular style in the 20’s. Set by a Paniscus. I’ve never known a Sapien to willingly use this stone. You’ll want to talk to Timothy.”

John spoke up, “A surname to go with that?”

Rogness looked irritated. “Sadly, no.”

“Ah, one of those types.”

“Exactly. He works in the shop of the same name.”

-o-

Timothy was just as arrogant as his single name implied, refusing to be seen until Sherlock bandied his own name about. He unveiled himself from behind a velvet curtain, looking far more congenial than his attitude suggested.

Timothy gloated over the photo. “Oh yes, one of our more impressive settings. He came in four months ago, looking to have the ring resized. Dead father, or something. Couldn’t _believe_ he wanted to wear it.” After multiple reassurances that Lindinfield was dead, and thus could not sully his good name, Timothy finally admitted that Lindinfield walked out of the shop wearing the resized ring simply because of how poorly he treated him.

“I felt it rather fitting, the lout wearing a stone like that, while acting like he did. I was _happy_ to provide,” Timothy oozed.

“I’ll need the provenance.” Sherlock demanded. The record of the ring and its owners could narrow down Lindinfield’s past.

“I’ll have Linda fetch it.”

John spoke up, “Did he come in with anyone, say anything significant?”

“A woman. I’m guessing not a girlfriend, though, he was rather rude to her. And to Linda. And to me. Really, I’m not sure how anyone could stand his presences without promise payment. In fact, she might have been paid company, she was Panicus too and didn’t say a _word_ when he told me what he wanted.”

“Did you catch her name? What’d she look like?”

“Jessica? Something with a J? Jessie? No, Chelsea! That’s it. Blonde, really curly, about his height, but she was in these gorgeous teal pumps. Best looking part of her, too. She needed work here,” he pointed to his cheeks, “and here,” pointing to his chest.

“The paperwork?” John asked, repelled, and looking to leave quickly.

Linda, the ever-suffering assistant, procured the provenance. Timothy attempted to push a business card in Sherlock’s hand, but was rebuffed.

“I don’t wear jewelry. If I did, I could certainly find worthier merchants than you.”

They left Timothy, and his enraged scowl, behind.


	7. The Blame's On You

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the documents once they’d ducked into the alley, and lit up when he’d made a connection. “We need to find him!” he exclaimed, pointing roughly at a name on one of the papers, crumpling it slightly.

“Who?”

“Robert Abagnale.” Sherlock beamed.

“Why him?” John asked.

Sherlock’s face fell, “Really, John? Must you be so simple? Even you-“

John cut Sherlock off; grabbing his lapel and pressing an insistent kiss to his lips, lingering for a few enjoyable moments. John pulled back, and searched Sherlock’s eyes for approval. He found it. “Oh thank god. I’ve been wanting to shut you up like that for ages.”

Sherlock sputtered in protest, and began derisively, “So that’s your grand plan, then? Any time I-“ but found himself with a mouth full of John Watson again.

John moved on from his lips, up his jaw, and licked the curve of his ear. With a wet whisper, he said, “Keep it up and I’ll find an even better use for that wicked mouth of yours,” then turned abruptly and walked back to the main road to catch a cab, leaving Sherlock cold, bereft, and half hard.

With a few long strides, he caught back up. John turned to him, “So. Robert Abagnale.”

“Is the last owner of the ring before it was transferred into Lindinfield’s hands. Either his real name or a relative.”

“Right then. I’ll call Lestrade.”

Lestrade answered on the second ring, not with a pleasant greeting, but a “How the bloody hell does he do that?”

“Do what?”

“Have you call just when I’ve found something.”

“What’d you find?”

“A payout on the life insurance from the first death. It’s tied up in appeals now, the money, not sure if she’ll get it or not. We’re on our way to meet her, a C. Abagnale.”

“Chelsea.” John supplied.

Lestrade paused, then, “I’m not even going to ask. Meet me there.”

John repeated the address for Sherlock, who repeated it to the cabbie they flagged a few minutes later.

-o-

They arrived shortly after Lestrade, who hadn’t yet made it to the woman’s door to knock. They joined him and the three of them made their way to the front door, while Donovan waited in the car, having run her mouth the moment Sherlock approached. She had earned herself a reprimand and sat pouting at Lestrade’s tongue lashing.

A knock on the door brought a mousy Paniscus, who opened it no more than twenty centimeters and peeked out. “Are you C. Abagnale?” Lestrade asked, in a kind, don’t-attack-me voice John learned in Afghanistan, and Sherlock actively avoided.

She nodded, nervously. “Ch-Chelsea, yeah.” She fiddled nervously and waited. Lestrade introduced himself and the others, produced identification, and asked if they could come in. Reluctantly, she brought them into the kitchen. A quick looked showed chopped vegetables, a pot of tepid water, and the heat of an oven, without the soon-to-be-done scent of cooked meat. _Preparing dinner then, but not close to done_ , John thought.

“Ms. Abagnale, we know you received life insurance payouts for Robert Lindinfield. What is your relationship with him?” Lestrade asked sympathetically.

She spoke softly, refusing to make eye contact. “He was my husband.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock interjected, dismissive and bored. “He was your brother. And a con man. You weren’t involved in the fraud, but knew of it. You know more than you’re letting on. Go on, then. Surprise me.”

In an instant, the soft mouse turned rabid. John saw, a split second before it happened, her pick up the small cast iron pan, and swing it hard. He advanced on her before her heard the dull, solid thwack of contract it made with Greg’s head. The table and chairs between them allowed her to escape out the back door, but Sherlock’s long legs permitted him to get to the door before John. Recognizing that Sherlock could handle the young woman, who had already dropped her weapon, he fell to the floor next to Greg and examined him.

While checking Greg’s pupils, he heard the squeal of the woman captured and picked up in Sherlock’s long arms, and his derisive remarks, “A frying pan? Are you aiming for cliché housewife? Settle down. You’re clearly not escaping at this point, you are only exhausting yourself.” Greg snorted as he listened to Sherlock’s commentary, and with a few other detailed examinations, John let Greg stand.

“You feel any dizziness, nausea, vomiting, ringing in your ears, _anything_ , “ John held a stout finger in Greg’s face, “You will tell me. Understood?”

“Yes, _Captain_.” Greg smirked, and walked outside to handcuff his assailant.

They hauled the woman to the patrol car, and Sally jumped out to open the door. Lestrade guided the woman into the back seat, still considerate despite her misdeeds. He closed the door on her and pressed his head against the roof of the car. John could see the tension in his shoulders and the whiteness of his knuckles. He put a hand on Greg’s back. “You okay, mate?”

“Fuck. Yeah, no dizziness, nothing like that.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Greg turned to look at him, then glanced about, nervously, “Honestly? I could use some conflict resolution.” Sapiens used the term as innuendo, but Panisci knew it was far more specific than that.

John blinked twice, thought back to what Sherlock had said, and licked his lips. “I can help with that, if you’d like.”

Greg’s laughed betrayed his confident demeanor, “God, I’d love to take you up on that, but I’ve got to get this suspect down to the Yard for booking and questioning.”

“Let Sally do it.”

“We need a statement, she wasn’t there.”

“Sherlock was.”

This time, Greg laughed whole heartedly, “Right, Sherlock’s going to voluntarily go in to give a statement so I can get off.”

John raised an eyebrow knowingly, “You’d be surprised.” He left Greg, confused, and stalked over to Sherlock. He lowered his voice, “Greg could use some _conflict resolution_.” He made sure his tone conveyed the gravity of his words. “You need to go with Sally to give your statement regarding Chelsea over there.”

“What? Absolutely not. I refuse to spend any time in a car with a woman who uses grade school slurs in her feeble attempts to offend me,” Sherlock hissed.

“Sherlock. You are the one who suggested this. If you want this, I need to go with Greg now, so that the three of us can enjoy ourselves later. If this is ever going to work, you’ll need to make the occasional sacrifice. Show me you can do it now.”

“Greg?”

“Lestrade.”

“Oh. Oh! Fine. I expect this to be resolved by the end of the day.”

“So long as Lestrade is as willing as you suggest, it will be.”

Sherlock backed up and looked at Sally with the falsest smile John had ever seen, voice dripping with saccharine, “Sally, dear, it appears as though I’ll need a lift to the station to give my statement.”

Greg’s eyes widened in alarm. John walked back over to him with a grin. “All settled. Let’s catch a cab back to your place.”

 


	8. Make Someone Feel Better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Been in a dark mood lately, and ended up writing a few major character death suicide fics instead of updating this.
> 
> But now, smut!

John dropped to his knees, clasping his hands behind his back, as soon as Greg shut the door to his flat behind him. As a proxy for the actual aggressor (the crazed woman with the cast iron pan), John started their sociosexual dialogue from a position of deference. The first conversation would be Greg releasing his frustration and anger, the second conversation would be forgiveness. John looked forward to both.

Greg let John kneel for a few minutes as he shook off his coat and tossed it over the nearest chair. He disappeared down the hall and came back quickly, holding a soft silk tie. Tradition dictated the aggressor keep their hands clasped as a show of self control, but most Pansici preferred a little help. John was glad to see the red silk; some people liked to use rougher constraints, but John would always favor a softer touch.

Greg squatted behind John, gently but firmly tying the fabric to bind his wrists. He came back around to stand in front of John, just inches away. John saw Greg, thickened in his trousers, and leaned forward to rub his cheek along the hard length. He nuzzled up and down, enjoying the symbolic pleading of forgiveness. He straightened his back to add extra height to his reach, and mouthed the head of Greg’s cock.

Greg’s heavy breathing gave way to a soft moan. “Let’s move this to the bedroom,” he suggested, hooking an arm under one of John’s to provide leverage. Once John struggled to his feet, he followed Greg, head down, eyes lowered, to the bedroom. Once there, he waited as Greg undressed. He watched with great interest as each portion of skin was revealed. The thatch of grey hairs on his chest gave John visions of gripping them tightly while lavishing attentions on the small sienna nipples that stood against his naturally tanned skin. Had to be natural coloring, in grey and rainy London. He admired the softened belly of a older man once fit in his youth; he saw the same every time he looked in a mirror. Greg’s thighs were strong, muscled. Clearly running after criminals and thugs outweighed the times spent at this desk swamped in paperwork. His cock stood hard at attention, jutting out from a sparse nest of salt and pepper curls. He clearly had no interesting in trimming or shaping the natural patch of hair, a mostly Sapien practice of being dissatisfied with the hair and the musk and the natural consequences of sexual adulthood.

And John adored Greg’s cock, a bit smaller than average length with a large, thick vein running up the underside and a soft pink head. John examined it closely, once Greg sat at the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to admit John closer. John couldn’t deep throat as general rule, but he might be able to make an exception for Greg’s perfect mouthful.

John waited, fully hard, fully clothed, hands tied, for Greg’s command. Greg softly ran his fingers through John’s hair, not immediately yanking him downwards as John initially expected, but in dearest affection, softly, slowly, with the occasionally stroke down John’s gorgeous jaw line. John warmed in confirmation of Sherlock’s deductions. He felt adored under Greg’s touch. Greg fancied him. And John couldn’t wait for the opportunity to show Greg how cherished he was in return.

Finally, Greg gently tilted John’s head to look him in the eye. “You ready for part one?”

John nodded.

Greg pulled John in to his cock, and spent only a moment rubbing the head against John’s lips before fully thrusting inwards, shoving his entire length deep into John’s waiting mouth. His cock hit the back of John’s throat, and John gagged, but Greg never ceased, wrapping both hands around John’s head and fucking into his mouth with abandon. John focused on breathing in and out between the moments when his throat wasn’t sealed tight with Greg’s thick cock, and he started to drift out mentally, giving up his conscious thought in favor of the rough feeling of being used so furiously. He blearily opened his eyes to gaze into Greg’s as his slackened mouth accepted pounding punishment, and felt a drifting sense of rightness and peace in helping Greg achieve his conflict resolution.

He vaguely registered Greg’s moans and growls, his ‘fuck, John’ and ‘God, you’re fucking gorgeous like this’ comments. John’s untouched cock tingled with each compliment, and finally Greg pulled him off with desperation. John mouthed in his direction a time or two until he fully realized he’d soon be using a different hole. Greg pulled him up and shoved him face forward onto the bed, reaching around to unbutton his slacks and pull down them down with his pants. If John had been fully aware, he might have been embarrassed at his mostly dressed, arse-to-the-wind state, but as it was, he eagerly awaited Greg’s welcome intrusion.

John heard a telltale click, which brought him a little closer to proper awareness, and he silently thanked evolution that he didn’t need the same preparations as a Sapien. Pansici males were generally looser, and could even technically engage in male on male relations without lubricant. But the click reassured him that Greg, like himself, preferred a more slippery, wetter fuck, and he could hear the slick sound of Greg slathering his cock with the dripping substance.

Greg pulled John back closer to him and he felt the head of Greg’s cock swirling in tiny circles around the slightly relaxed pucker. Greg took his time to push in, and John savored each moment of Greg filling him. He felt the stretch with a soft pinching discomfort, and satisfying fullness of being stuffed once Greg was fully seated.

Greg waited, likely relishing in the moist heat, before pulling almost all the way out, and slamming back into John with unbelievable force. John yelped as the power of the thrust pushed the air from his lungs, and then continued to grunt heavily with each furious thrust thereafter. Greg almost violently chased his release, pushing down on John’s neck to gain the leverage to shove even deeper inside. John knew, as the aggressor (or in his case, being the surrogate aggressor) that this was a form of punishment, being used completely and totally by the one wronged, but John’s body rewarded him for withstanding the brutal fuck by clouding his mind with a fog of pleasure and bliss.

Greg didn’t say much between the feral growls and heaving panting, but finally he grunted out a “Oh, Jesus fuck!” before releasing John’s neck and instead pulling John onto himself in slowing, more deliberate thrusts as his come pulsed into John’s arse in waves. Finally, he withdrew and collapsed on the bed next to John.

Greg took in deep, gulping breaths, while John barely moved, lost enough in his own head that resurfacing took as long for him as it did for Greg to begin breathing normally. John tipped off his knees away from Greg so that he was still facing him when he landed on his side on the down duvet. He felt the obscene trickle of semen leaking out of him. They looked at each other, and Greg slid over to John and wrapped his arm over him. While pulling John into a deep kiss, Greg found the end of the silk tie and pulled to release John’s wrists.

John shifted to bring his arms in front of him, lightly massaged them and slung one over Greg.

Greg smiled. John smiled.

“Are you ready for part two?”


	9. We Can All Join Hands

John smiled. He was more than ready for Greg to engage in part two of their “conflict resolution.” Conflict Resolution was the best of both worlds. The rough, angry fuck, full of violence and rage, and soft, gentle, love making with beautiful tenderness.

He nodded to Greg, indicating his pleasure at Greg’s readiness. Greg rolled above John and pulled him in for a soft, gentle kiss, both symbolically demonstrating his forgiveness, and illuminating his affections for John personally. John responded receptively to both, trying to pour all his tenderness for Greg into the embrace.

Greg caressed John’s sides, then pulled John’s wrists to his lips one at a time to kiss, in apology for their earlier restraints. He pressed wet kisses into John’s palms, and then slid John’s fingers into his mouth, to demonstrate his skills. He flicked the sensitive webbing between John’s digits, and John moaned in deep pleasure.

Greg pulled back and grinned, “Sensitive fingers?”

“Fuck, yes.” John replied breathlessly. “At this point, sensitive _everything_.”

Greg offered a few more considerate licks to John’s hands and then guided them up to his own hair. He let John dig his fingers into his short grey hairs, while he started lavishing his attentions onto John’s neck. He bit softly, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make John groan helplessly. John allowed Greg to unbutton the cardigan he still wore, and then the checkered shirt underneath. Greg finally bared John’s chest and saw the soft rosy nipples, bigger than his own, with perky, aroused points. With glee, Greg dived down and tickled one nipple with the tip of his tongue and used his fingers to gently roll the other. John thrust upwards, involuntarily, with a soft, “Fuck, Greg.”

Greg played further with John’s nipples, alternating tongue and touch between the two until John was consistently grinding upwards into whatever parts of Greg he could reach. Greg deliberately moved each time John began a comfortable rhythm, leaving John aching and wanting for more.

John finally gave in and pulled Greg down flush against his body, and rutted himself against Greg’s firm form. They both gasped as John’s erection finally made steady contact with a source of friction, and as Greg’s erection began to return, though it’d been only twenty minutes. Greg pulled away with great reluctance, so that he could finally strip John of the trousers and pants still strangled around his knees. He yanked the offending articles down, leaving John bare and open.

Greg stood for a moment, admiring John’s form. Toned, layered with age, and a tan reluctant to fade after Afghanistan. John’s cock was longer than his own and thicker, too. Greg didn’t care. He’d learned over the years that only a few of his many partners ever cared about size, the real test was how well he performed as a total package. And Greg was totally confident in his abilities.

He crawled back over John, beginning again at John’s rough lips, the late night stubble beginning to form and scratch Greg’s chin as he started to work his way down. He hovered over John on all fours, dipping his head to move from John’s jaw to his neck, from his neck to those tight reddened nipples, and began to tease John further, with soft, wide strokes of his tongue. He moved further down as John panted his name, and tongued the juncture where John’s thighs met his pelvis. He deliberately avoided John’s most sensitive areas to instead tease the swathes of skin often less cherished. He pressed wet kisses above John’s cock, letting it bump innocently against his neck and chin. He kneeled back and grasped John’s thigh to push them back and apart, and nibbled on the edge where mounds of cheeky flesh fell into a valley.

“Fuck, Greg, you bloody tease.” John growled, reaching down to fist himself in exasperation. Greg let go of one thigh to intertwine their fingers and redirect John from his goal. John let out a needy whine. Greg pressed a kiss to John’s other thigh and then pushed it back further to expose the dark pucker, loose and leaking from their previous encounter.

Greg bent down and licked a wet stripe of lube and come up until he reached the gaping hole. He circled it with the tip of his tongue before plunging in, and smiled when John’s exclamations became an incoherent scramble of _Jes- oh, fuh- Gre- oh, yea, fuuuckk_.

The bitter taste of his own semen and the minty lube smeared across his face as he buried his tongue as far as he could in John. The sensation, the taste, the inherent filthiness made him groan audibly. The noise and vibration did not go unnoticed by John, who gripped Greg’s hand tightly and let out a gasping high pitched howl, followed by “ _Please, fuck, fuck me, Greg, please, fuck_.”

The sound of John breathlessly pleading, begging, gagging for him throbbed through Greg’s entire body, and he found himself ready yet again, and pulled back. John whined again at the loss of stimulation, but sighed happily as he watched Greg rearrange himself in a most promising position.

Greg caught sight of the clock, only twenty-eight minutes from when he’d emptied himself in John’s body earlier. He hadn’t had that quick of a turnaround in years. Since, well, Sherlock. Not that he was planning on mentioning that to John. He looked down at John, with his heaving chest, temples damp with sweat, face flush, and smiled. He lined himself up, and though it was their second go this evening, pressed exceedingly gently into John while keeping their hands locked together.

Once seated, Greg leaned down into John, chest to chest, and looped his free arm around John’s neck to pull him into a tight embrace. He slowly rotated his hips, to provide hard but lazy thrusts into John’s warm, sopping hole. John huffed with each stroke, writhing to provide further friction to his neglected cock, trapped between their bodies.

“You are gorgeous when you beg, John, you know that?” Greg whispered in John’s ear. “Your fucking moans and those deep growls, it’s bloody delicious.” John offered a few as sacrifices to placate Greg further and rutted up against him harder.

“I want to see you like this again,” Greg confessed in barely a whisper, his inhibitions as low as the moans echoing out of John’s throat. He continued rolling his hips, and pulled their intertwined hands up to his mouth to kiss John’s fingers. “I want to fuck you. I want to hold you. I want to make coffee in the mornings and bring you the paper in bed. I want all of you.” He pulled back to look John in the eye, unsure as to how his admission might be received.

John stared wide-eyed back at him. “Oh, God yes, Greg. All of that.” John sputtered, and reached up for Greg’s lips. Greg bent down and kissed John deeply, hands held tight, in a strong, loving embrace. John felt the connection complete, Greg warm inside him, rocking gently back and forth, their hands and arms and lips all connected, their bodies flush. The tenderness of the whole scene rippled through John, and he arched up one last time into Greg, crying out into Greg’s mouth as he came between them.

Greg pulled back, diving in for a few chaste kisses before gently pulling out of John and rolling next to him. He knew his erection was mostly a lost cause; it’d take far too long to actually get him there. Their breath synchronized until neither was still breathing hard enough to make noise. Greg spoke aloud, staring at the ceiling. “I meant it, John.”

“I did, too.” John said and Greg could hear his smile without even looking. John cleared his throat, and spoke a bit more hesitantly, “And so does Sherlock.”

Greg barked in laughter, until he looked over at John and saw the look on his face. John’s eyes were wide, his hairline brought low in mimicry of how most everyone else raised their eyebrows. Greg swallowed audibly. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah, I am. Uh, we are. And it’s okay, if you aren’t- If you don’t. I mean-“ John babbled nervously.

Greg stopped him with a kiss.

“And you’ve both discussed this?”

“I didn’t believe him at first. That’s obviously changed.”

“Obviously.” Greg imitated, and their laughter broke some of the tension. Greg sat up and looked down at John, who had rolled towards him and was now perched on his elbow. “Seriously, though, Sherlock? He’s a Sapien in every sense. He’s open to this type of relationship?”

“We’ve both talked it over. Honestly? I think he likes the idea of the two of us being able to satisfy our sexual needs ourselves, while he gets the adoration and affection that comes with a relationship.”

“But he’s… he’s-“ Greg faltered, not knowing how much John knew.

“He’s occasionally in the mood. And it’s like a hurricane when he is.” John laughed, and looked briefly at Greg, “Or at least, that was my experience. Yours?”

Greg huffed in relief, “Yeah, that’s about how I’d describe it, too.”

John’s phone chimed from somewhere on the floor. John laughed, “Hundred to one, that’s Sherlock, asking if you’ve acceptable our proposal.”

Greg leaned down to John and hovered an inch from his mouth. With a breathy puff, John felt the “Yes,” against his lips, before Greg pulled him into another lingering kiss.


	10. Really Shitty Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one or two chapters left... Thank to Mime for pointing out a typo!

Greg’s phone chimed, too, and they both groaned, breaking the kiss apart. Greg fetched his phone, while John reached for his.

“Yup. Sherlock.” John confirmed. He typed a quick reply back.

Greg gestured at his own phone, “Donovan. Sherlock’s given his statement and Chelsea’s processed and ready for questioning.”

“I should hope so, It’s been-“ John checked the clock by the side of the bed, “-three and a half hours? Not bad for a couple of old men.” He swung his feet off the bed to pull on his pants and slacks.

“You’re just kid, what’re you talking about?” Greg teased, picking a new suit out of his closet.

“If I’m just a kid, Sherlock’s a bloody baby, so let’s not go there, shall we?” John cringed, buttoning up his shirt.

“You’re not the cradle-robber in this relationship,” Greg raised his eyebrows once he realized it was him. “Oh, God. I’m not some sort of pervert, right?”

John finished shrugging on his cardigan, “It stops being creepy when we’re all older than twenty-five. You spend too much time around Sapiens,” John reassured, stepping into Greg’s space to smooth down the lapels of his suit. “Age is beneficial. My mate Murray and his partners just added a lovely older woman, mid-sixties, to their relationship. Says she’s a fantastic lover. I’d say you’ve learned a few nice tricks as well. And maybe together we can teach Sherlock a thing or two.”

-o-

When they arrived at NSY, Sally had already begun questioning Chelsea. Sherlock waited in the viewing room, watching with silent, intense eyes. They joined him quietly watch. Chelsea was handcuffed to the table, a precaution given her prior assault on Lestrade. Her solicitor stood in the corner in a cheap brown suit and ugly novelty tie. Her eyes were red with tears, mascara beginning to streak down her cheeks. Her hair was still mussed from her struggle against Sherlock.

“She just started,” Sherlock whispered, gesturing to Sally.

“Now, Ms. Abagnale. Let me tell you what I know,” Sally stated in a factual, but conversational tone. “You are the younger sister of Robert Abagnale, also known as Robert Lindinfield, who was reported dead six and a half weeks ago, but actually died three days ago.”

Sally paused and placed her hand out on the table near Chelsea’s and looked sincerely at her, “I am sorry for your loss. No matter what happens here today, that must have been difficult for you.”

Chelsea sniffed, and fat tears dropped from her eyes. She nodded, let out a large sob, and Sally pushed a box of tissues her way.

Sally continued after Chelsea composed herself.

“It’s safe to say you knew he was alive?”

Chelsea looked to her solicitor, who nodded minutely, and she responded with a sniffle, “Yeah. Robbie had gotten in some trouble, so he was staying in my shed til it died down.”

“Your shed? The one at your house?” Sally glanced meaningfully in the direction of the single sided glass.

“We put in some plumbing, wires and, uh, internet. He’d come back into the house at night to get food and stuff, y’know, so he could hide out all day.”

“So, if he was in hiding, how do you think he ended up in the lab? Did he have anything there he needed?”

Chelsea shook her head, and check with her solicitor again, who gestured for her to continue with a reassuring smile. “I think he took him there. To kill him.”

“He?” Sally asked, hopefully she was getting somewhere.

The witness shifted uncomfortably in her chair and stared at the ground, her fingers fidgeting around the chain of the handcuffs. “I don’t know who he is. He said he was gonna kill me. And Robbie. For the money. And he got to Robbie, and I, I-“ and the sobs overtook her again, and she pulled her legs into her seat and curled together the best she could with her restraints.

Sally dragged her chair around so that she could sit next to Chelsea and offer her a reassuring hug. Chelsea latched onto her and wept into her shoulder.

From the other room, John noted, “Sally’s not too bad in there.”

Lestrade nodded, “Yeah, she’s a competent officer, despite what this one says.” He twitched his head to indicate Sherlock.

“You can see how I’d miss it though, the way she antagonizes him. It makes her sloppy.”

“Eh, they do it to each other.”

“But she always starts it, do you notice? He’s just biting back.”

Lestrade hummed thoughtfully, and turned his focus back on Sally.

“Tell me about him, we can help you if you just let us,” she said softly, arm still around Chelsea’s shoulders.

“He, he-“ the witness began, trying several times to get the words out between tears, “He said if I went to the coppers, he’d kill me. He didn’t know ‘bout Robbie. And then Robbie was dead and you all showed up. That’s why I tried to escape. Why I hit the detective, too. I don’t wanna die like Robbie!”

Chelsea continued to wail. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This interrogation will take forever if this woman won’t stop blubbering.” He turned to John, “Can’t you make this stop?”

“No, Sherlock. Grief is just one of those sentiment things.”

“And a perfect demonstration as to their futility.”

Sally spoke in the other room, using soothing tones, “He threatened you? Was he blackmailing you?”

“Yuh-yuh-yes!” Chelsea cried, “He knew that Robbie had tricked him and he wanted the life insurance payout.”

“How did Robbie trick him?”

“He pretended to fix some drug that went wrong a few years ago. Pretended he had the cure, but needed money to fix it up.”

“Who threatened you? Do you know?”

“I dunno.” Chelsea wiped her eyes, “He was a Sapien. Tallish, I guess. With grayish hair, and a big chin. Maybe in his twenties?”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“I’m sorry for hitting the older bloke.”

Lestrade cursed from behind the glass. “Christ, am I really that old?”

John laughed, “You know what the constables in vice call you, right?”

“Grandpa?”

“Silver Fox.”

Lestrade failed to hide his grin, “So not that bad, then?”

“Not at all.”

Sherlock spoke up, “Yes, yes, you are extremely attractive regardless of your age. Can we focus, please?”

Sally opened the door to the interrogation room and frowned when she saw Sherlock was still in the room, “What do you say, Freak? Did you get the information you needed, or do I need to ask some asinine questions of her to appease your ego?”

John glared meaningfully at Greg.

Sherlock barbed back, “Neither, Sally. As usual, you fail in the most elementary tasks of your job. Perhaps being second best to Anderson’s wife has influenced your self esteem, your competence, or both. Bring me her phone.”

“I can’t just give you evidence when you demand it!” Sally protested, looking at Greg for reassurance.

“Donovan, just bring him the bloody phone. You know how this works.”

She returned, pouting, moments later, the smart phone encased in an evidence bag. Sherlock turned the phone on through the bag, and scrolled through the contacts. “Ah! Here you go.” He handed the phone to Greg.

Greg looked at the phone, and saw ‘Lindinfield’ listed as a contact, with a ten-digit number underneath. He looked back at Sherlock, “What’s this, then?”

Sherlock looked dumbfounded, and pronounced “Lindinfield!”

John smirked. He’d gotten the clue.

Greg scowled, “Just tell me. You can train me later.”

Sherlock beamed at the thought, but went on, “This is his sister. Why would she have his false name in her phone? Especially since there’s already a ‘Robbie’ in her contacts? That number – it’s the bank account into which she was supposed to deposit the life insurance.”

Greg concurred and handed the phone to Sally, “Get this to Barry in forensic accounting.”

John nodded towards the closed door as Sally left the room, “That’s what I mean, Greg. She should’ve asked how Chelsea was supposed to get the money to the blackmailer. But instead, she came to see if Sherlock was still here.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Greg conceded. “Listen, it’ll take Barry a few hours to trace that account. How do you both feel about dinner?”

Sherlock started to speak, but John cut him off. “We’d love to.”


	11. Repeat After Me

John and Greg ordered and sat, eating amiably while Sherlock dazed out the window. Greg took a large gulp of lager and then cleared his throat.

“So, how’s this gonna work?” He gestured to the three of them.

“Well, uh, it’s been a while since I’ve-“ John started.

“Let me save us all some trouble. You will stay at your flat, because I very much doubt you can handle my day-to-day lifestyle. You and John will fuck as often as you’d like, and occasionally, when I feel the urge, I’ll make you both aware. I’ll expect daily affection, in the form of kisses and touching. We won’t tell the Yard, because I don’t want to be scrutinized for working with you. Does that cover the basics?” Sherlock detailed rapidly, without looking away from the window.

Greg and John glanced at each other, then burst out laughing.

Sherlock turned to look at them, “What?”

“That was just such a _you_ thing to say.” Greg chuckled.

“Thank you, dear, for clearing that conversation right up for us.” John said, after his laughter had died down.

“What’s wrong with efficiency?”

“Absolutely nothing. That was actually a fantastically succinct way to have negotiations.” John smiled. Sherlock searched his look for mocking or dishonestly, but smirked when he found none.

“Excellent. Lestrade, any objections?”

“Just one,” Greg responded, “If we’re doing this, you’re calling me fucking Greg. Not Geoff, not Gavin, not any of the names you use to take the piss out of me. Got it?”

“Yes, _Greg_.” Sherlock conceded, and turned to look back out the window.

“What are you looking at?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Something outside is taunting me, like I’ve missed something. I’m trying to figure it out. Shut up.”

John turned to Greg and rolled his eyes. Greg smirked, and shoved another mouthful of Chinese in his mouth with chopsticks. John returned the smile, and they continued to eat, in the same amiable silence as before.

-o-

As they walked back to the Yard, Sherlock stared blankly into the window of each business they passed. John and Greg talked rugby, barely paying attention to their partner. They meandered into the station, and up to Greg’s office.

John and Sherlock waited, while Greg consulted with Sally about any updates on the case. He returned to them, looking forlorn. “Bank account’s a dead end. The account is in the name of John Smith,” he told them.

“Okay, then. Maybe we can work with that. What’s that you say, Sherlock, the problem with an alias is that’s it’s always a reflection of the culprit?”

“Wha- oh! John, yes! Reflection!” Sherlock jumped out of his chair, gripped John by the head and placed a quick kiss on his forehead before running out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

John turned to Greg, “Do you know what just happened?”

-o-

Sherlock returned a half hour later with an old VHS tape. “Greg, I need a video player,” he demanded. Greg called out for the new sergeant, Chalmers, and it took another ten minutes to find a VHS player that worked. Sherlock popped in the tape he’d been holding. He, Greg, John, and Sally circled around the small telly, and watched the scratchy ATM video footage.

“What am I looking at here, Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Footage from the bank across the street from the lab. Wait for it…” Sherlock paused, and then, jabbed the pause button. The video paused on an amazingly clear shot of a pale man, holding a gun to the back of their victim, all in the reflection of the windows of the bank.

“The reflection!” John exclaimed, proud of Sherlock’s discovery.

“That might be enough to find him,” Sally commented, reluctantly.

“Take it, Donovan,” Greg passed the job of scouring the databases for a match to her. He had paperwork to complete. “I’ll be here a while,” he told John, “Why don’t you take our brilliant madman home?”

John smiled. “Sure thing, love.”

-o-

Sherlock and John both received a text from Lestrade letting them know their man had been found. The video Sherlock had found, with Greg’s files, found the man, a Sapien who was a direct match for the man in video, and gave the false name as John Smith. Greg was sure they had had the right man, but he offered to let them watch the interrogation.

Sally was in the room with the suspect when they arrived. John turned to Greg, “She’s not going to fuck this up just because Sherlock is here, is she?”

Greg sighed, “Yeah, I didn’t tell her he might show up. We’ll see what happens.” They turned to watch Sally through the one sided mirror.

“So, Mr... Smith, is it?” Sally asked skeptically.

Mr. Smith grunted. His hands were cuffed to the table in the same manner as Chelsea-the-sister, but he didn’t have a solicitor. His overgrown, shaggy blond hair blended in with his skin tone, giving him a washed out appearance. He was perhaps a stone underweight and though his muscles were clearly defined, he still had a wispy, frail look about him. He shook the hair out of his eyes, and muttered, “I didn’t hurt nobody.”

John caught the redness in his eyes, “Marijuana?”

Lestrade nodded, “Reeks of it.”

Sally smiled patronizingly. “Hurt anybody? Why do you think that?”

“I seen what department you’re with, babe.”

“Saw. Saw!” muttered Sherlock.

Sally’s smiled faltered, “Right. So tell me, Mr Smith. Where were you the night of the 25th?"

“How the hell should I know? It was days ago. Do I look like a bloke with a fucking day planner?”

John snorted, “That might be the worst excuse for an alibi I’ve ever heard.”

Shaking his head, Greg lamented, “I wish I could say the same.”

Sally changed tactics, flipping through his records. “So, ward of the state until two years ago? No parents?”

“Nosy bitch, ain’t ya?” he shook his head, “It’s all there, you can read. Me mum was beat to death by me Da, and the bastard’s serving twenty. Right in front me, the cunt.”

Sally noticed the young man’s nervous habit of twirling the ring with his thumb, “That’s a nice ring.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“A little too nice. Who’d you nick it off of? No parents to buy you something nice, couldn’t have left it to you, it’s a man’s ring and you wouldn’t wear something of your dad’s, right?”

“Fuck you,” the man sneered, losing his nonchalant demeanor in an instant, “I came by this fair; my foster brother gave it to me. Closest thing I ever had to a real Da; Roger was, bought it for me right before he-“ He stopped suddenly, realizing he was giving away too much.

Sally jumped on the revelation quickly. “Roger? Roger Miller? One of the TGN1412 victims?”

“TGN1412, what’s that, then?” The blond sputtered, obviously lying.

Sally deliberated thoughtfully, then spoke slowly and softly. “This is how I see this happening. Roger died in that first trial and you were angry. When Lindinfield showed up, trying to raise money to fix the drug, and you found out it was a scam; maybe the ring gave it away. But then he died, right? You threatened his sister for the life insurance money, but in doing so, you found out Lindinfield was still alive. Maybe he knew he was close to be caught out, maybe he just wanted to disappear with the money. You marched him to his lab, injected him with TGN1412, left some samples to distract us, and left. Sound close enough?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he murmured weakly, head down.

Sally pulled out a few documents; and laid them in front of the man. “Listen, let’s stop this charade. I’ve this photo of you leading the victim into his lab with a gun. Clear as day. This bank account; we’ll tie it back to you before the day is through. You’ve got motive, we’ve got evidence. I’m going to have Sergeant Chalmers here put you back in your cell until you’re sober, and then you’ll confess. Because if you confess, I’ll see to it that you aren’t sent to the same prison as your arse of a father. But if I have to bring you trial, I’ll make sure you are. Understood?”

The blond nodded sullenly.

Greg gestured at Sally through the mirror, as though asking for endorsement of her skill in closing the case. John hummed with approval, and Sherlock spoke with mild surprise, “I didn’t think she’d catch the ring.”

Greg clapped his hands together, “And now, more bloody paperwork.”


	12. Start it Right Now

Greg came over three or four times a week, whenever the paperwork took a momentary lull. The arrangement was at first tense; Greg, despite his agreement to Sherlock’s terms, felt the odd man out. He watched how John knew exactly when to make tea, when to ignore Sherlock’s stroppy behavior, and when to speak up during cases. Sherlock knew what each of John’s cross silences meant, and adjusted his behavior accordingly. Sherlock followed John’s subtle orders to eat, to sleep. They worked. Well. Together. Without him. Greg wondered how he contributed in this relationship. Logically, he knew it was stupid; John and Sherlock lived together, and thus they’d time to develop that comfortable familiarity. They’d invited them into this threesome; they’d obviously wanted him, but why?

  
John spent the first two weeks attempting to disabuse him of his insecurities. When Greg arrived each night at Baker St, he greeted Sherlock with a soft kiss, on the lips if Sherlock wasn’t singled mindedly focused on an experiment, or on the temple if his head was buried in his chemistry set. After which, he sat on the sofa with John, a cuppa, and they talked about their days, the clinic and station, maybe watched a Bond film, and engaged in light, but lovely snogging. And almost each night, John led him by the hand to their bedroom, Sherlock waving them away while he occupied himself. Technically, “their” bedroom was Sherlock’s room, with a brand new Multi-King bed, eight feet wide, for the nights when Sherlock might deign to join them. John showed Greg exactly how much he was needed, desired, wanted, and craved. They held on tight, sometimes with pounding thrusts, other times with gentle strokes, but it was in these moments, tangled up with John, that Greg remembered exactly why he’d been wanted.

  
About three weeks into their new arrangement, Sherlock heard Greg trudging up the stairs. The day had been especially tragic; a young interspecies couple was slaughtered by the Sapien’s conservative uncle. Greg’d spent hours with toxically speciesist family members, and as he made his way to the flat on Baker St, felt the weight of each insult he’d withstood that day. He felt each slur, illogically imagining Sherlock saying it, using it as an excuse for why they’d yet to have sex as a threesome. Despite his rational mind trying to force the wicked thoughts from his head, the irrational side bombarded him with hate and despair. When he came in the door, he bypassed his routine greeting of Sherlock to collapse into John’s warm embrace.

  
Sherlock stood abruptly, upending a set of vials on the tables, drawing attention of both Panisci. He quickly crowded them against the kitchen counter, pressing Greg in between he and John. He turned Greg, gripped him tight, and kissed him with a dying man’s urgency. John ran his hands down Greg’s sides, excited to see Sherlock’s interest. Perhaps tonight would be the night they would consummate the relationship together.

  
Sherlock took one hand and ran his fingers through Greg’s greying locks, gripping it tightly to hear Greg groan. His other hand he slipped down to Greg’s arse, where he could, with gentle strokes, both fondle Greg’s arse and John’s cock at the same time. John moaned at the touch, and leaned in to grab Sherlock’s tresses with one hand and nibble hot kisses into Greg’s neck.

  
They writhed and whimpered together until John pulled Sherlock back off Greg’s insistent lips. “Bedroom” he gasped.

  
Sherlock let go, and grasped both their hands, dragging them into the room with unbridled enthusiasm. He shoved them both towards the bed and stripped without ceremony. Greg marveled at the body he hadn’t seen in years, still pale, muscular, with a few more scars than he remembered. He wanted to kiss each one better, then lick the man from head to toe. Well, ankle. Toes weren’t really his thing. Greg scrambled to undress himself; he’d somehow believed that if he waited too long, Sherlock would lose interest.

  
John took his time. He watched his partners, his lovers, disrobe with haste, and took pleasure in the firm lines of their bodies and rigidness of their arousal. Once fully naked, they both stared at him in anticipation, and he took time to indulge their interest. He slowly removed his cardigan, and undid each button slowly, with deliberate fingers, until only his vest remained. He undid the top button of his trousers, pulled his zip down at a tantalizing pace, and then Sherlock pounced.

“Fuck, John! Fucking tease,” he growled, shoving John onto the mattress and yanking down his pants and trousers in one go. John’s cock popped up with comical interest. Sherlock dipped down to encompass John’s length within his hot, wet mouth and then withdrew as quickly.

  
“Jesus, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, taking off the last of his clothing.

  
Greg laughed, and Sherlock examined the scene with quick, intense eyes. “Okay. Since I don’t self lubricate, there will be no penetrating me today, though it may be an option in the future. Greg needs the most attention today; let’s put him in the middle. John, do you want to fuck Greg or be fucked by him?”

  
John stuttered and looked questioningly at Greg, “Like he said, you need the attention today, where do you want me?”

  
Greg thought for a moment, “Daisy chain. I want to be able to hold you.” He looked to Sherlock, “And you can hold me if you want.”

  
Sherlock saw in an instant it was less of a “if you want” and more of a “please, God, yes, I need it.” He laid on the bed on his back, cock jutting up into the air, thick purple head pulsing and ready. “Come join us,” he gestured to Greg, indicating the space between himself and John. Greg looked at both of them, with a faint awe, and crawled up onto the bed. John and Sherlock both curled into him.

  
Sherlock lathed kisses on the back of his neck, and bit softly into his back. His fingers danced down Greg’s back to the crack of his arse. He gently stroked down the firm cheeks, to his bollocks and back up again before dipping down the circle the tightness of his loosening pucker. John ran his hand through the downy hairs of Greg’s chest, tugging occasionally and flicking his nipples as he passed. He captured Greg’s mouth, internally competing with Sherlock’s earlier kiss. His hand meandered away from the pert, reddening nipples and down to Greg’s cock. He stroked softly, aiming to tease more than work towards any sort of completion.

  
Sherlock waited for John to distract Greg with his soft caresses, and slipped a finger into his hole. Greg groaned into John’s mouth, and wrapped his arm around John to apply a similar affection. Sherlock added a second finger, biting a beautiful bruise onto Greg’s neck, while Greg greedily shoved two fingers into John without notice. John startled, but Greg knew he’d be fine; their limits were different than Sherlock’s.

  
Sherlock felt the dampness of Greg’s lubrication, and lined up his cock against Greg’s arse. He pushed slowly, feeling the tightness of Greg envelope him and looked down to watch the man’s arse stretch around the thickness of his cock. Greg exhaled vocally, as Sherlock pulled out, and thrust in again. Sherlock wrapped his arm around Greg, holding him tightly.

  
John flipped over and lined himself up with Greg. Greg pulled him against his chest, and waited for Sherlock’s press into his body before pressing into John’s. The breach was as warm and tight and wonderful as it had been the first time, and he slid in deeper, to the hilt, then felt Sherlock bottom out behind him. Greg clutched John like a dying man, and felt loved and cherished between these two men with whom he’d gone through hell and back. He kept clinging, and slowly began to work his way between Sherlock and John, with Sherlock’s help. The slow drag of Sherlock’s cock out of him, accompanied with the tight, slick grip of John’s arse on his own cock left him speechless, besieged with pleasure, and as he filled and fulfilled, the pleasure grew more intense, and he found himself pistoning between the detective and his blogger.

  
Sherlock continued wet kisses and bites at the juncture of Greg’s neck and shoulders, and let his hand drift to the nipples to which John had previously attended. He pinched and flicked, adding to the onslaught of sensation, leaving Greg empty of anything aside from the bliss he was receiving. In turn, Greg applied similar affections to John, softly gripping his neck and forcefully turning John’s head with strong fingers on his jaw. He held his throat, not squeezing, but applying gentle pressure as he kissed John with deep intentions.

  
John moaned, with one hand coming back to grip Greg’s short silver tresses, and used his other hand to start slowly stroking himself. Greg, aware that his release was imminent, thrust wildly, letting the ecstasy ride through him like a wave, and before he knew it, he felt himself liberating within John, throbbing through a blinding orgasm. John, feeling the pulsation of Greg’s come into his body, found his own release, moaning into Greg’s mouth as he came.

  
Sherlock, at the sight of John writhing on the end of Greg’s cock, and the gripping sensation of Greg’s arse tightly wrapping around his cock, tipped over the edge, and delivered load after load into Greg’s willing hole, with a quiet cry. They lay there, panting, for several minutes as they recovered.

  
“That was bloody gorgeous,” Greg sighed, when his breath came back to him.

  
“Yeah, yeah. Right. Yeah, it was,” John agreed, still tucked into Greg’s embrace.

  
“Obviously,” came the sluggish, condescending reply. And pulling the sheets up over them, the lovers held each other as they drifted off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me! I hope it satisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> Goal is to update within the week, likely some time this weekend.


End file.
